ith a fair,
pointed beard and faint, yellow hair. But an impression grew that he was
less meek than he looked. He signalised his entrance by differing with
the established poet, Gregory, upon the whole nature of poetry. He said
that he (Syme) was poet of law, a poet of order; nay, he said he was a
poet of respectability. So all the Saffron Parkers looked at him as if
he had that moment fallen out of that impossible sky.

In fact, Mr. Lucian Gregory, the anarchic poet, connected the two
events.

"It may well be," he said, in his sudden lyrical manner, "it may well be
on such a night of clouds and cruel colours that there is brought forth
upon the earth such a portent as a respectable poet. You say you are a
poet of law; I say you are a contradiction in terms. I only wonder
there were not comets and earthquakes on the night you appeared in this
garden."

The man with the meek blue eyes and the pale, pointed beard endured
these thunders with a certain submissive solemnity. The third party of
the group, Gregory's sister Rosamond, who had her brother's braids of
red hair, but a kindlier face underneath them, laughed with such mixture
of admiration and disapproval as she gave commonly to the family oracle.

Gregory resumed in high oratorical good humour.

"An artist is identical with an anarchist," he cried. "You might
transpose the words anywhere. An anarchist is an artist. The man
who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment to
everything. He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing
light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a few
shapeless policemen. An artist disregards all governments, abolishes all
conventions. The poet delights in disorder only. If it were not so, the
most poetical thing in the world would be the Underground Railway."

"So it is," said Mr. Syme.

"Nonsense!" said Gregory, who was very rational when anyone else
attempted paradox. "Why do all the clerks and navvies in the railway
trains look so sad and tired, so very sad and tired? I will tell you. It
is because they know that the train is going right. It is because they
know that whatever place they have taken a ticket for that place they
will reach. It is because after they have passed Sloane Square they know
that the next station must be Victoria, and nothing but Victoria. Oh,
their wild rapture! oh, their eyes like stars and their souls again in
Eden, if the next station were unaccountab